A Moment Under the Mistletoe
by algyy
Summary: A kiss under the mistletoe: it should be the start of a perfect Christmas romance. But Constance Hardbroom doesn't do romance - unless Imogen can somehow change her mind.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Wrote this story a few Christmases ago. It's short; there are only 6 chapters and about 4k words total. All romance and festivity and HB being angsty HB.

It had been a terrible mistake.

It was the last day of the winter term; the girls were partying rowdily in the great hall, and many a teacher who should have known better had joined in. An air of festivity prevailed.

Miss Hardbroom had never intended to stand beneath the mistletoe. She had not known it was there, not known there was any such thing on the premises. And she had neither intended nor expected that that infernal PE teacher woman should come skipping up, face flushed and eyes bright, point out what she was stood under and kiss her on the cheek. This action was, regrettably, witnessed by several pupils, some of whom actually had the audacity to cheer.

And it had been concluded by the aforesaid infernal PE teacher murmuring something mostly inaudible about love. About being in love. Some sort of brief, whispered confession. Some hint that, should an appropriate moment present itself, there could be a great many more kisses and these would not confine themselves to the cheek, nor would they be witnessed by a crowd of giggling schoolgirls. They would be a private matter for two, and they would be the start of something.

Of course she had avoided the woman ever since. But now, with that most hideous of all occasions looming ahead - the Inter-Academy Staff Christmas Eve Dinner, attended by teachers from several different academies who seemed to have nowhere better to be on Christmas Eve - and taking place in Cackle's Academy's own great hall, avoidance was very quickly going to become an impossibility.

It had been a terrible mistake, and she was going to make sure it was never replicated.


	2. Chapter 2

Another Christmas tree had just appeared. The academy seemed to have an outbreak of them this year. It might have been tempting to put it down to some sort of rogue magical working, but the frequent sight of a tinsel-draped Miss Bat scurrying about with boxes of decorations indicated that the explanation was probably a good deal more prosaic.

All the same, it was getting ridiculous. The big Christmas tree had been put up in the great hall as usual at the start of December, and a couple of smaller ones had appeared in the staffroom and in Miss Bat's classroom just as they always did - but then the girls had gone home and it had all got out of hand, and now they were popping up everywhere. The latest was in the library. Miss Bat had been decorating it that morning, and making a great racket while she did so.

Miss Hardbroom did not approve of it at all. This was not much of a surprise - there was very little which Miss Hardbroom did approve of, and it was well-known that she acutely despised Christmas.

Christmas, to the Constance Hardbroom mindset, did not present a tempting prospect. It combined all the things she disapproved of most, from overeating to forced jollity. And the jollity was forced. Constance Hardbroom was not one of those who believed that Christmas was a panacea for all ills, a magical time when nothing could possibly go wrong, a day of unadulterated peace and goodwill to all men, women and magic-workers. It was just another day - unfortunately one on which everyone felt they had a perfect right to go about grinning manically, engaging in increasingly mind-numbing "festive" pursuits, and vigorously chastising anyone who did not do likewise. To even think of working at Christmas was forbidden - and, unfortunately, working was what Constance liked doing best.

She wasn't really a Scrooge, not exactly. She was just different. Things other people enjoyed left her cold - and vice versa. She wanted to be left alone to pursue her studies, to read books, to write academic papers, to work on her lesson plans for the next term. She did not want merriment thrust upon her. It wasn't that she didn't know how to enjoy herself, as was widely rumoured; it was just that she enjoyed herself differently from most people, more quietly, more sensibly. She and the rest of the world just didn't understand each other.

And she was not in the slightest looking forward to that awful Christmas Dinner, with Egbert Hellibore making sexist remarks, Algernon Rowan-Webb giving voice to inane jokes, Phyllis Pentangle giving vent to that awful braying laugh of hers, Miss Bat getting tipsy and mutilating unsuspecting Christmas carols - and of course that damn non-witch woman sitting there, at a dinner where no non-witch really had any right to be, not doing anything specifically, simply being her usual irritating self...

Imogen.

The name whispered through her mind as it had so often in recent...what? In recent days, weeks, years? She spent a lot of time thinking about Imogen Drill - more than ever since the end-of-term party, and that moment under the mistletoe.

She sighed. What with that, and the infernal glinting of baubles and tinsel, jingling of bells, caterwauling of carols and general sounds of festivity, it was no wonder she couldn't concentrate on her work today. She had barely written more than a few words, and, though there were reference books strewn on the table around her, she couldn't seem to focus on any of them. If anyone said anything, she'd blame it on the latest tree. It was a Distraction. A library was no place for a Christmas tree.

Her mind swung back round to Imogen. She was avoiding the woman, of course. It was not too difficult to keep out of someone's way in a place as big as Cackle's academy. The only difficulty was in fighting the urge to go and put herself very much in Imogen's way, and...

And what?

Well, be kissed again ideally - perhaps even on the lips - but of course it wouldn't be that simple. Things never were.

Constance, surprisingly enough, had a genuine regard for Imogen Drill, despite their disagreements - possibly even because of them. She rather admired the woman's determination, her refusal to back down in an argument. She would perhaps have liked to enter into a...relationship with Imogen, but the complications were infinite, and made it impossible.

Constance had had experience of romance, a great many years ago, in a past which few people would have believed she'd had. She knew the teachers and students of Cackle's couldn't imagine that she had ever been young; she sometimes doubted it herself, and wondered if it hadn't all happened to someone else. She was forty-two now; it was a full twenty-five years since the heady days of her first love. A woman, of course; Constance had always known she didn't like men in that way. A nice girl. Perhaps it would have been True Love, if things had been different.

But it had had to end, because...well, because Constance was Constance. That anyone could be loved "for who they were", as the popular phrase went, seemed to Constance to be a frankly fallacious assumption. She had never found anyone who loved her for who she really was. Some had said they did, of course - said it, and then immediately begun to try to change her.

The fact was that people didn't like it if you were strict and hard-working and fond of rules. They thought you needed to "loosen up", as the phrase was, to enjoy yourself more. They decided something dreadful must have happened in the past to make you so "uptight", so "unfeeling", so "abnormal". Surely no one could really be happy living like that, they reasoned; surely all this strictness and uprightness was nothing but a façade; surely the woman underneath was tender and vulnerable and damaged. They decided on all this, quite without consulting you, and then they set out to Save You From Yourself.

Constance did not want to be saved. Being saved was, she felt, highly overrated. She could look after herself. She had fashioned a strict and organised life for herself, in which all things ran smoothly and standards were met, and she wanted no one to interfere with it. There was nothing to be gained by letting strangers root about amid one's emotions and memories. She was in control, and she intended to keep it that way.

She would have to stop avoiding Imogen soon. They were colleagues after all; she couldn't keep out of her way forever. They would have to talk. It would all be so terrible and emotional and untidy. Imogen would be left thinking that Constance felt nothing for her, when the very opposite was true. But what else could be done? Constance was talented at many things - potion-making, the art of discipline, speed-reading - but she was no good at articulating her deepest emotions and innermost thoughts. She would have to make out that the woman meant nothing to her, cut her losses and move on.

"Love", Imogen had whispered to her, some inarticulate confession about "love". Constance had heard that word before, long ago, and more than once. Some people used it with positive abandon. Did Imogen really love her, or did she only love some idea of what there might be hidden behind the mask? Surely she only loved what she thought Constance might be, what she thought she could be, if only she were a little less "uptight".

Imogen herself was, after all, anything but uptight. Those casual clothes she wore, her passion for always running about, her love of the outdoors, that perpetually messy hair of hers...Constance smiled rather fondly, quite without meaning to. She was a good teacher, though, and she did actually seem to be quite interested in magic even though she could not use it herself. They'd had quite a few interesting conversations over the years they'd worked together, when they weren't squabbling their way through staff meetings (Constance always squabbled with the rest of the staff, and often opposed their ideas merely on principle; it seemed expected of her). In truth, Constance thought a good deal more of her various colleagues than she would ever have let on, and she thought a great deal of Imogen in particular.

But...colleagues. That was all they could ever be. She'd keep her head down and get through the tortures of Christmas, and then she and Imogen would have to have a little talk, and their moment beneath the mistletoe would be consigned to the depths of the unspoken past, where it surely belonged.


	3. Chapter 3

Christmas Eve. A palpable cloud of jollity had descended upon the academy, along with the persistent smell of slowly cooking turkey and its associated trimmings. Miss Bat took to peeling spuds with rather terrifying fervour, singing as she did so. Miss Cackle was seen with her nose buried in a copy of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol", an old favourite which she had read every year since before anyone could remember. And Constance simply retreated to the library, to study and to work, as if there were nothing special about the day at all.

It was in the library that Miss Cackle found and cornered her, in the late afternoon.

"All ready for the dinner tonight?" enquired Miss Cackle, cheerfully. She was a rather cheerful sort of person, generally. Much as she admired the headmistress, Constance had always found this particular trait rather annoying.

"I'm not going," answered Constance, not looking up from the book which she was at least pretending to read.

"Not going? Don't be silly - you have to go! It's tradition! More than that, it's Christmas."

"So they tell me. However, you know very well that the occasion is not my idea of fun, and I'm sure everyone will have a perfectly pleasant time without me - probably more pleasant than if I were there."

"Don't be silly, we'd miss you."

Constance gave her a sardonic look.

"Don't look at me like that, we would! You're...part of the family, you know. It's just not Christmas until Constance Hardbroom reluctantly puts on a paper party hat."

"'Reluctantly' being the operative word."

"You want to be careful carrying on like that; you'll end up being visited by three spirits in the night..."

"You've been reading A Christmas Carol again, I take it." Constance somehow contrived to make it sound like an accusation. Miss Cackle remained frustratingly undaunted.

"Of course," she said, "It is Christmas Eve. Come on, Constance. Come to the Christmas Dinner - for the food, at least, even if you leave before the dancing."

"Why do you care so much, Amelia?"

"Because I'm your friend, Constance." For reasons known only to herself, Miss Cackle felt compelled to pat Constance's wrist. Constance did not feel that either of them derived any particular benefit from the gesture, and wondered why it had been made. "You've got more friends than you realise. And...I'm worried about you. You haven't been yourself recently."

Constance cursed inwardly. Amelia was so damnably observant, that was the trouble.

"I have noticed no difference in my behaviour," stated Constance, crisply, "You really have no cause for alarm."

Miss Cackle looked sceptical, as well she might. Constance wasn't herself just at the moment, hadn't been since the Mistletoe Incident (as she privately referred to it), but she had hoped it didn't show.

"Be at the Dinner tonight," Miss Cackle said, "If you're not, I'll come looking for you. I'll drag you there if I have to."

"I'm quaking," answered Constance, insincerely.

Miss Cackle merely gave her a smile, and left.

Constance rested her head briefly in her hands. Damn Amelia and her observational abilities. At least she didn't seem to have realised why Constance wasn't herself. But...should she happen to see Constance and Imogen together, and making conversation - as they would surely have to, if they were both at the Dinner; ignoring each other would be even more obvious - who knew what those perceptive eyes of hers might pick up?

One thing was certain: Constance was going to have to be very careful. And she was going to have to get hold of Imogen very soon, and let her know that there could never be anything between them - much as she might wish otherwise.


	4. Chapter 4

"Imogen! You look lovely! Green really suits you!"

"Oh, thank you, Davina!" Imogen smiled warmly at the Chanting teacher who had just complimented her. "You look lovely too. New dress?"

"Yes, I thought I ought to dress up a bit for the Christmas Dinner. It came from that nice little shop in the village. Retail Therapy, it's called."

"Oh, yes, I think I've heard of it."

"They've got some lovely vintage things. I must say, it is lovely to see you out of your usual sportswear and in a dress - ooh, there's Amelia, I'd better go and say hello..."

Miss Bat hurtled away to exclaim at the headmistress - as if she didn't see her every day - and Imogen began to cleave her way through the crowd of assembled witches and wizards. She had found the gathering rather daunting in the past, felt that she had no place among all the magic-workers - but after several years, she had come to rather enjoy the occasion. It was nice to actually have an occasion to dress up for once in a while.

She was feeling cheerful, festive even; she was rather looking forward to both the Dinner and the ensuing party. She had promised herself that she would spend Christmas having as much fun as possible, and not think about You-Know-Who.

Except of course that plan went up in flames before it was more than a few hours old, because, as she looked along the table to see who was already there, her eye fell upon none other than You-Know-Who herself, austere and handsome as usual, in a plain black dress and with a simple garnet necklace about her throat (she only ever wore jewellery on special occasions, and always that necklace. She thought jewellery "frivolous" generally), looking characteristically disapproving about something or other. Imogen's heart leapt almost painfully at the sight of her; for some reason Constance looked up, and their eyes met. Something almost tangible passed between them - a spark, a kind of magic rather different from the sort any of these witches and wizards usually dealt in - and they both looked away hurriedly.

Imogen took her usual place, some distance from Constance. She hardly heard a word that was said to her; the Christmas speech which the Grand Wizard insisted on giving completely passed her by, though she applauded politely afterwards. She forced herself to look away from Constance now and then; but her gaze wandered in that direction again and again of its own accord. Now and then Constance looked up, drawn, it seemed, by the same compulsion; every time, that spark passed between them, and Imogen's heart fluttered like a trapped butterfly.

Sexual tension, she thought, incoherently, Lust - or love. When she looks at me it's like...I don't know...electrocution of the eyeballs. Only nicer.

The Christmas Dinner wound on rather ponderously, as these occasions generally do. Crackers were pulled, and paper hats donned by all; jokes were read out, and cheap plastic gifts accumulated in vague piles in the middle of the table. Imogen hardly tasted the food, despite having looked forward to it. She only drank one glass of mulled wine, and shook her head firmly when she was offered a top-up; she felt light-headed enough without the addition of alcohol. To be so near and yet so far from the object of her love - close enough to exchange glances, too far away to talk - was at once torturous and wonderful; Imogen hardly knew whether to long for or dread the end of the meal. She knew she'd have to go over and talk to Constance then, though she had no idea what she would say. "I love you" was all that came to mind - and, though true, she had a feeling it wouldn't be quite that simple.

At last the puddings were either gone or almost gone; Christmas music was playing, and people had begun to make their way - rather unsteadily, in some cases - out onto the dance-floor. Mistletoe began to appear, mostly in the hands of the last people who should have been allowed it; a few kisses were exchanged. Benjamin Greengage was flirting outrageously with a blushing Miss Cackle; Algernon Rowan-Webb had embarked on a tipsy round of karaoke; Miss Bat was dancing in a manner that made her look demonically possessed.

Imogen shook her head a little fondly, then suddenly noticed that Constance had left her place at the table. Another moment, and a voice at her side said, "Miss Drill - we need to talk."

Imogen's heart hammered painfully as she met the eyes of the one she - God help her - loved.

"We do," she agreed; then, wanting to prolong pleasure where she could, she ventured, "I don't suppose I could tempt you to a dance first, though, could I?"

"I don't dance, Miss Drill."

"You stand under mistletoe, though."

"Only by accident."

A silence descended briefly, then Imogen said in a rush, "You wish it hadn't happened, then?"

Constance sighed. "We really need to talk. Not here," she added, as a conga line of witches led by Miss Bat frolicked past to the sounds of Slade's Merry Xmas Everybody. How they could all dance so nimbly after such a big meal, Imogen would never know. She idly wondered if magic had anything to do with it.

"My room?" suggested Imogen.

Constance hesitated.

"Or yours?" asked Imogen, then wondered if she'd sounded too suggestive.

"Yours," said Constance, decisively, "You go on up and I'll join you in a few minutes. We didn't ought to leave together."

Imogen rolled her eyes. "No one'll notice. No one cares."

"You can't be too careful."

Imogen felt as if she should say more, but no words seemed to be forthcoming, and, anyway, Constance was edging away as if it were dangerous for them to be seen in one another's company.

Imogen turned and left.


	5. Chapter 5

Imogen's room was much as Constance had imagined it would be (not that she would admit to ever having given it any thought): untidy and rather full of sports gear. There were a large number of books on various topics - not neatly arranged on a shelf as Constance's were, but strewn about with abandon, some of them even (Constance winced delicately) placed face-down. The guitar in the corner came as rather a surprise; she had never thought of Imogen as musical. It was, all in all, a surprisingly interesting sort of room, a room which made one want to get better acquainted with its occupant.

With difficulty, Constance remembered what she had to do, and wrenched herself away from trying to read the titles of several upside down books.

"There can never be anything between us, as I'm sure you realise," she stated, without preliminary.

Imogen blinked in surprise - as well she might. The sparks between them at Dinner had almost been enough to set fire to the festive napkins.

"Why not?" she asked.

Constance had been hoping she wouldn't ask that. She took refuge in an authoritative-sounding statement. "I should have thought that was obvious," she said.

"Not to me," answered Imogen. There was a flush to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with a mixture of hope and despair. She looked, somewhat inconveniently, very beautiful. Constance felt as if she were undergoing a sort of torture.

"We are fundamentally incompatible," she stated, "We have nothing in common. Besides, we are work colleagues. Any sort of...romance would be inappropriate."

"I don't see why," said Imogen, contrarily, "Those two teachers from Pentangle's got married last year." She looked conciliatory. "We needn't tell anyone - not yet."

Constance closed her eyes, and then reopened them slowly. It was no good; Imogen was still there, and she was still beautiful.

"It would never work," she said.

"We could try."

"I know it wouldn't."

"And I'm sure it would."

"Miss Drill...Imogen..." Constance sighed. "I'm a harridan and a harpy. Ask anyone. I am serious and boring and obsessed with discipline. My idea of fun is writing a treatise on potions. No one in their right mind would want to be...romantically involved, as it were, with me."

"Well, I'm obviously not in my right mind, then."

Constance sighed again. This was proving more difficult than she had thought - and she hadn't expected it to be easy. "You would never be able to change me," she ventured.

"I don't want to."

"Don't think you can...tap into my fun-loving, romantic side, because I don't have one."

Imogen regarded her piercingly. It was like a conversation with Miss Cackle, only worse. At least Miss Cackle wasn't so beautiful that she gave one palpitations.

"Are you sure?" Imogen asked.

"Completely sure. I'm forty-two; if I had a fun-loving, romantic side, I think I would have discovered it by now."

"Are you forty-two? I thought you were younger. You look younger."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

They regarded each other silently for a few moments.

"So, you see, it wouldn't work," said Constance, at last, as if she had just conclusively proved it, "I don't...do romance. You're wasting your time."

"I see," said Imogen, quietly, "Yes - I see."

"I thought you would eventually." The victory seemed very hollow somehow. "So, ah, I think we ought to just forget what happened under the mistletoe, after all it was only a kiss on the cheek, and..."

"Constance?" interjected Imogen.

"Yes?"

"Shut up. In the nicest possible way."

Then, as Constance was still reeling - no one had ever told her to shut up before, not even Miss Cackle - Imogen approached her, seized her none too romantically by the shoulders, and planted an absolute smacker of a passionate kiss on her lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, Imogen reflected, rather later that night - evidently after the party had ended, because all was silent - one had to just take a chance and hope for the best. Sometimes it was the only thing to do.

The thought unfortunately reminded her of the ABBA song, and as she was one of those people who can't think of a song without singing it, she began to sing quietly, "Take a chance on me, that's all I ask of you honey, take a chance on meeee..." - halting abruptly when she felt a rather angular elbow in her ribs.

"I don't know if you're singing in your sleep, Imogen, but I refuse to share a bed with a musical rendition."

"And hello to you too, Constance."

"I shouldn't be here."

"You promised me you wouldn't run off."

"You do know you're making a terrible mistake, don't you?"

"You told me at length last night. I thought I'd never get you to shut up. Seriously, though...I meant what I said earlier. I really do love you."

There was a pause, punctuated by a kiss. "No one must find out about this," said Constance.

"Of course. Not yet."

"I'm inclined to say not ever. It would be all round the academy in no time; the girls would find out...and, well...it would ruin my discipline over them. It's all right for you, you only teach PE. You don't need real discipline for that."

Imogen rolled her eyes. "What say we leave bashing each other's subjects until the next staff meeting? It's expected of us then."

"What do you think is going to happen to us, Imogen?"

"I don't know. It seems worth finding out, though." A kiss. "Doesn't it?"

"I begin to think so. You do know I can't be changed?"

"You did mention it a few times. Why would I want you to be what you're not?"

"You'd be surprised. Many have had their reasons. I am a harridan."

"Well, I like you that way."

"I wonder," said Constance, quietly, "If you always will."

"We'll just have to hope for the best, won't we?" said Imogen, cheerfully.

"Yes," said Constance, "I suppose we will."

A distant bell tolled. Twelve o'clock: the witching hour, as it were. And Christmas Day, of course.

"Constance?"

"Yes?"

"Merry Christmas."

"I don't do merriment."

That was so ridiculous, even for Constance, that Imogen simply ignored it; at length Constance said, hesitantly, "Imogen?"

"Yes?"

"Merry Christmas."

Imogen kissed her - and, as the night slipped away, the two lovers clung together, faced into the unknown, and hoped for the best. What else could they do?

-END-

Author's Note: I'm sorry, I have a hard time envisaging HB having a proper happy-ever-after! I think this is the closest she'll get for now. Thanks to everyone who read and commented/followed/favourited :)


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